


Whodunit

by mille_libri



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 01:32:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5271542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mille_libri/pseuds/mille_libri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>History says the Blight companions disappeared after the Archdemon was killed; it doesn't say who made the disappearances happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alistair

Tears stung at his eyes, nearly blinding him as he stumbled through the streets. How could she have done this to him? Loghain had been on his knees, he had surrendered, for the Maker’s sake! One swipe of her sharp blades and the traitor, the murderer of Duncan and all their brother Wardens, would at last have paid for his crimes. But no. Riordan had stepped forward, offering salvation to that scum—offering to make Loghain a Grey Warden! And she had stopped, her blades raised to strike, and listened, her head cocked to the side. The pragmatic assassin who was always at her side had whispered his sibilant assurances in her ear; the Orlesian bard turned Chantry sister had prattled on about the greatness of mercy. And she had put the blades down, one sharp, decisive nod of her head pardoning all of Loghain’s crimes.

Betrayed. By the one person he had trusted above all others. Maybe he should never have trusted her, or any of them. A casteless dwarf, an Antivan Crow, an Orlesian bard, a sneering witch, a drunkard, a Qunari—maybe all of them were part of some vast conspiracy to destroy Ferelden. 

Alistair stopped, bracing his arm against the wall of a building he didn’t recognize. Maybe he should turn around and go back. He was Maric’s son, after all! He’d never wanted to be King, but if it meant Loghain got what was coming to him … 

“I thought I’d find you here.” A cloaked figure loomed out of the dark, and Alistair strained his eyes but could not see the face under the hood.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “And why do you look like that?”

“Like what?”

“All … scruffy.”

“Ah. Well, we don’t want to be recognized, now, do we?”

“We don’t?”

“Not if we’re going to go talk about how to rectify this mistake.”

“You think it’s a mistake?” Hope poured through Alistair. Maybe he’d have an ally.

“Of course. Now, quickly, put these on.” 

Alistair took the bundle of clothes. “But … my armor?”

“I’ll take care of it. Your sword and shield, too.”

“All right. I suppose.” But he was used to taking orders without question, so he did, handing over armor and weapon without a murmur. It felt strange to be without his sword and shield—after so much time fighting, they were part of his body. “Where are we going?” he asked, following the cloaked figure through the alley.

“A place I know. Don’t worry.” And they were off, through Denerim’s unfamiliar back alleys. Alistair thought he recognized some of them from coming through here with his fellow Warden, cleaning out all those mercenaries for Sergeant Kylon. But he couldn’t have found his way through the warren by himself if he'd tried. 

The person he followed stopped at the door of a dingy tavern, holding it open for Alistair and leading him to a table in a dim corner. 

“I’m … not much of a drinker,” Alistair said, remembering the few times Oghren had convinced him to try that stuff he called ale. He’d made a right fool of himself, nearly falling face-first into the fire once. How they had all laughed, he and his friends. He bit his lip, the bitter feeling of betrayal washing over him anew.

“Just a little to take the edge off.” His companion signaled for a bottle and poured something clear out into a dirty mug. Alistair was used to drinking out of worse on the road, though, and he picked up the mug and drank without hesitation.

“What is that stuff?” he asked when he had his breath back. It had burned going down, but now he started to feel warm all over.

“Homemade. Good, isn’t it?”

Holding out his mug for more, Alistair failed to notice that his companion was still nursing his drink.

Time seemed to skip around after that. Alistair drank and drank, telling his companion all about the road—how he’d thought he was in love with her, had given her a rose, only to find she preferred the company of the assassin to his. How he had pleaded with her not to make him be king. And over and over how she had betrayed them all by allowing Loghain to become a Warden. Through it all, his companion said little, moving only to refill Alistair’s mug while barely touching his own.

At last, Alistair stood up. His eyes were having trouble focusing, and the room swayed around him. “I sh’d go.” 

“Of course.” 

It was suddenly very cold. Hadn’t it been summer? He was shivering. It was hard to catch his breath. Alistair lurched across the room, nearly falling. His companion helped him stand straight, and they left the tavern. Dimly, Alistair thought perhaps they were moving through the alleys again. It was awfully dark. Hard to see. “Stop!” he gasped at last, groping for the wall. He leaned against it, gasping for breath. Suddenly he vomited, falling to the ground on his hands and knees. He was shaking uncontrollably now, his body wracked with pain, more vomit coming up. The thoughts were quieted at last, no room left even for betrayal as blackness closed in on him and he collapsed to the ground. 

The cloaked figure watched as the man on the ground in the dirty clothes convulsed, listening to the faint gasps as the last Theirin choked to death on his own vomit. The face swelled as Alistair asphyxiated. It would be hard to recognize him now, especially not once his body had been food for Denerim’s vermin. 

Shortly thereafter there was a series of splashes along the docks, as piece by piece the armor, the sword, and the shield were dropped into the river, to be covered up once and for all by the thick silt of Denerim Harbor. The figure discarded the long cloak in a pile of bushes and strode briskly off into the night.


	2. Morrigan

Fools! All of them, dreadful fools. She the biggest fool of all, to believe she had made a friend, that the Warden would understand her purpose and assist her in it.

It was a relief to shapeshift, to fit her mind into the more simplistic thinking of the wolf, to forget the sorrow she couldn't admit to at having to leave behind those she had come to care about. Her purpose was clear; it always had been. If this Warden would not force Loghain to lie with her, she would find the other Warden, the simpleton, and would wrap him around her finger, bend him to her will. 

So lost in her thoughts was she, Morrigan didn’t notice the shadow in the hall as she dashed past, her tail streaming behind her. 

She’d spent enough time in Redcliffe Castle that she knew her way out. The massive doors, and the guards, were a bit of a problem in her wolf form, however. Morrigan found a dark corner to shift in, long enough to regain her human body and its magic abilities. With a single word and a gesture of her hand she cast a sleep spell on the guards, watching without pity as they fell to the ground. Their heads would probably hurt in the morning. Looking swiftly around to be certain there was no one near to see her (or was she secretly hoping the Warden had changed her mind and come after her, or sent her pet assassin to do so? Best not to think of that), Morrigan ran to the doors, opening them just enough to slip through. On the other side, she instantly transformed back into the wolf. The raven would have been easier, but she distrusted the sky at night. The Warden claimed to have slain Flemeth, but Morrigan had her doubts. Enough doubts that she preferred to remain on the ground, anyway. Let Flemeth have the air, if she still lived.

Morrigan slunk down the stairs into the courtyard. Not much farther now and she’d be free and clear—she could run deep into the forest and determine how best to find the missing Warden.

In the middle of the courtyard, she paused. Something was very wrong. There was an odd scent on the breeze, something that made her mouth water, her stomach rumble. The part of her that was Morrigan screamed for caution, but the part of her with the appetites and instincts of a wolf smelled food. Instinct won, the wolf in her possessing the ingrained knowledge of its kind that food was precious and not to be passed up when it was found. Cautiously, paw by paw, she moved closer to the scent.

Chicken! Fresh, raw chicken, its blood still hot as it seeped into the ground. She crept toward it, salivating. She could almost taste the warm blood and meat mingling on her tongue. Her instincts called for caution; both Morrigan and the wolf were suspicious of things that came too easily. She paused in the darkness, seeking with every sense.

The wind carried the unmistakable odor on the breeze—dogs. Several of them. Closing in fast. Morrigan the wolf turned to run, but bright lights flared, torches being lit around the courtyard.

“That’s the one, lads. There’s the she-wolf who’s been at our chickens. We been havin’ to eat dried jerky ‘cause o’ you, my fine girl.” The rough voice came closer as Morrigan blinked in the light, trying to clear her dazzled eyes.

She cowered away from the men as they came toward her, holding the frenzied dogs back on short leashes. Two men stood to the side, crossbows cocked and aimed at her.

"Shoot the thing," said a deep voice.

The one in front grinned, his brown, twisted teeth showing. "No, let's let the dogs have 'er. I want to see 'em take 'er down."

There seemed no way out of this trap—should she try to run as a wolf, the dogs would tear her to pieces; should she try to shape-change, the men with the crossbows, simple folk that they seemed, would kill her as an apostate and probable maleficar. Her eyes darted this way and that, looking for any opening in the circle of men closing in on her. Frantically she reached for her magic, knowing it was unreachable in her wolf form but desperately hoping that maybe this time ... 

A dog snapped at her flank, and she cowered away.

Slowly they backed her toward the wall, trapping her there. Morrigan could feel shameful panic flooding her, the wolf’s fear mingling with hers, and her control broke. She ran, leaping over the back of a startled mabari, racing toward the gates, her body lengthening for a long run. 

“Get her!”

The race was on. It wasn’t that far to the gates—maybe she could make it out of them, into shadow where she could shape-change out of sight of the crossbowmen. Closer, closer …

Pain arced through her as a dog leaped out in front of her. She felt a brief flash of respect for the mind that had foreseen her wild dash for freedom and positioned the dog in her path. She swerved quickly to avoid the dog's giant jaws, but he latched his teeth into her leg as she went by. Morrigan reached inside for her last reserves and managed to move faster, tearing her flesh out of the dog’s grip. Blood flowed hot down her flank and she could feel her leg weakening. But the gates were right there! Every fiber of her was focused on getting out of this courtyard, thinking no further ahead than the blessed darkness that lay so tantalizingly outside the gates.

The dog leaped, landing on Morrigan’s back, its jaws closing on her spine. Pain burst through her body, and she collapsed, her legs no longer moving at her command. The dog ripped off a chunk of her flesh and she shrieked with the pain, trying to tell them to cease, that she was a human, that this was a great error on their parts, but all that came from her throat was a wolf’s howl.

Her howl appeared to enrage the dog, and he ripped off another chunk of flesh. His slower packmates had caught up to her now, all of them surrounding her, rending and tearing. A few feeble yips were heard, but soon the wolf was stilled.

A cloaked figure on the balcony watched the carnage for a moment. It nodded once, as if in satisfaction, then turned to go inside the castle, leaving the dogs to their work.


	3. Brosca

The air resounded with the din of battle. Swords clanged, people swore and cried out, darkspawn shouted unintelligibly, bodies fell, blood spurted. A trained observer could see that the darkspawn seemed to increase in number, rather than decrease, while the armies gathered against them lost fighter after fighter. Those remaining were slowly being pushed back into the city, trying to hold what little ground they could with whatever vestiges of strength they had left.

Deep inside the city, the Archdemon crouched at the top of Fort Drakon. Flashes of light from mages and bursts of corruption from the Archdemon lit up the sky. Occasionally small figures could be glimpsed moving about atop the tower, but none of them were distinguishable to the observers below.

And then movement, a blur of motion. The great dragon’s wings flapped, sending blasts of noxious air thickly across the city. Those battling on the ground coughed and choked as the heavy cloud of tainted air began to settle, and more than one lost his life to a darkspawn’s blade in the sheer distraction of trying to breathe. But the dragon couldn’t take flight, for all its desperation to get away from those who attacked it. It thudded heavily onto the rooftop, which creaked under the pressure. Fort Drakon was solidly built, but not meant to withstand the several tons of Archdemon currently weighing it down.

The smallest figure of all was impossible to see unless you were on the roof, but everyone knew she was up there. The Warden. The casteless dwarf with the uneducated speech and endless determination had rallied a nation, and had become the face of Orzammar to many of those who had never met a dwarf before, changing the prevailing view that dwarves were stuck-up cave dwellers who couldn’t care less if every person in the surface world fell to the Blight. Now she fought for them all atop the height of the tower. Many of those who fought in the army she had collected had trouble imagining how someone as small as the Warden could defeat something as large as the Archdemon—but every one of them believed she could do it, nevertheless.

A din from the top of the fort drew the attention of those below—screams and shouts and a sound none of them had ever heard before, the great keening cry of the Archdemon in the ultimate pain. White light shot from the hulking shape of the dragon, forming a column that pierced the clouds.

As the light faded, the fighters, Thedan and darkspawn alike, stood frozen, all of them staring upward with their weapons raised. The darkspawn were the first to recover, shaking their heads dazedly and turning around and around, looking off into the distance intently, as though listening. A hurlock Alpha was the first to lift his head, staring intently into the distance, and he motioned to the others, calling out words in a guttural tone.

Some of the troops made a half-hearted attempt to follow the darkspawn as they fled the city, single-mindedly moving toward whatever it was they had been listening for, but most of the army simply sat down where they were, exhausted.

The helmeted figure in the midst of it all didn’t sit, though, moving instead through the crowds of troops, speaking occasionally to those who seemed most wearied. While no one else on the ground seemed to have grasped what had occurred, the silence and lack of cheering from the top of the tower seemed a clear indicator that, as many had feared, the Warden had died with the Archdemon. A thought was spared by the helmeted figure for the valiant spirit of the young dwarf, but no more than that as it made its way across Denerim, shrewdly assessing the damage done and what would need to be done to repair it.


	4. Sten/Dog

The giant Qunari was easy to spot walking through the streets, making his final preparations for his trip home to Seheron. The Warden’s mabari walked next to him, its stub of a tail drooping. It had agreed to accompany the Qunari, but an expert eye trained in the way of mabari could tell that it wouldn’t live long. Few mabari survived the loss of one master; this one had outlived two. Its emotions were already unstable—no one would think twice about any unpredictable behavior. 

It had been easy to switch the dog’s regular rations out for the doctored ones. It would be interesting to see if the enchantment worked, if the trigger would set the mabari off as the Tranquil in the Wonders of Thedas had promised it would. And then there was the further uncertainty of whether a single mabari, even one as experienced and battle-scarred as this one, and as maddened as it would be, could take out a Qunari. But half the fun lay in the speculation and the layers of planning, after all.

The Qunari hefted his parcels, walking confidently—arrogantly—through the crowds of people. It was easy to follow him, from a distance, as though just wandering through the market.

The boat was scheduled to load its passengers in the morning. Time enough for the hound to have one more dose this evening.

Morning dawned bright and clear. As they walked along the docks toward the waiting ship, the mabari yipped and whined in a way that clearly the Qunari hadn’t been expecting. After a particularly sharp bark, the white-haired giant broke his stoicism to look gravely down at the animal. 

From a careful vantage point—the top floor of a warehouse owned by an acquaintance—the hooded figure watched. The plans had been too carefully laid to chance them going awry. Besides, this promised to be great fun.

The watching figure could see just when the mabari passed the crate that had been planted near the gangplank of the ship, the crate containing the rotting flesh of another mabari. It stiffened, the growl evident even though it wasn’t audible from this distance.

The tall figure of the Qunari halted, turning to speak to the animal, which snarled, showing all its great, fearsome teeth, and snapped at the Qunari’s outstretched hand. The giant drew his hand back, examining it gravely. The watcher thought a bit of blood might be gleaming on that large hand. A most satisfactory beginning.

The Qunari raised his uninjured hand, yelling at the dog, who snarled back. Suddenly the mabari darted forward, biting the Qunari viciously in the leg. The Qunari staggered but did not fall. He drew the giant maul from his back, swinging it at the dog, who barely managed to get out of the way of the blow. The mabari ran at the Qunari, ramming its solid, heavily muscled body into the Qunari’s legs and forcing the giant back several steps. The Qunari swung the maul again, catching the dog in the shoulder. It yipped loud enough to be heard even by the watcher, and cringed back. The watcher leaned forward, heart beating hard, wondering if the pain would be enough to counteract the effects of the poison. But the dog was crouching next to the crate filled with rotting mabari meat, and, enraged, it leaped at the Qunari, paws landing squarely in the midst of the Qunari’s chest, and knocked the giant off his feet. The dog was quick to press his advantage, jumping on top of the Qunari’s chest, its teeth shining.

Something else shone in the sun—a dagger the Qunari had pulled from a place of concealment. The figure smirked at the sight. The foreign giant had learned a few tricks from the tiny little Warden, it appeared. Well, he wouldn't profit from them for long.

The dog's head dipped; the dagger rose.

In one great spray of blood, the dog tore the Qunari’s throat out. Only once the blood had settled, splashing onto and soaking into the warped boards of the dock, was it apparent that the dog was dead, as well, its insides ripped open by the dagger in the Qunari's dying hand.

Spectators stood over the two bodies, crying out in horror. The figure watching from the warehouse window nodded, face buried deeply in its hood, and turned away.


	5. Oghren

“’Nother’n.” He had trouble enunciating the word, waggling the mug above his head in pantomime. Drops of ale fell into his hair and his beard, and he lifted the end of one of the beard braids, sucking the last of the stuff out of it. He couldn’t understand why the bartender was glaring at him, or what the man was trying to say. The syllables ran together as they came from the bartender’s mouth. Oghren blinked, blearily trying to focus on the words. “What?”

“No money!” The bartender enunciated each word with great care, waving his arms in the air for emphasis.

“Money,” Oghren repeated dully, trying to understand. People paid for their ale, didn’t they. Oh. Well, then, he’d pay for his. He reached for the pocket where a purse would normally have resided, but the pocket was ripped, hanging loose. Had someone robbed him? “Maul?” he said hopefully. Maybe the bartender would take his weapon in trade. But the man was shaking his head angrily, saying something else. Oghren reached for the familiar handle of his weapon, but it wasn’t there. “I … be a nug’s uncle,” he said. “Been robbed.”

“You already traded the maul,” the bartender said, crossing his arms and glaring at him.

“Huh.” He didn’t remember doing that. It had been a good idea, though. Maybe his armor would be worth something. He looked down at it … sod it, where was his armor? He remembered wearing it down off the roof of Fort Drakon, following the poncy elf as he carried Brosca’s body down the stairs. The armor had been scorched and dented, no longer useable in battle, but Oghren assumed there were those out there who would pay a pretty penny for armor worn during the fight with the Archdemon. Those scorch marks were Archdemon-made, after all. 

But somehow he didn’t seem to be wearing any armor. He was, instead, wearing trousers and a shirt made of some kind of rough material, worn and none too clean. Not that he cared. “Where’s my soddin’ armor?” he growled at the bartender.

“Traded it. Drank it up yesterday.”

“I did?” Oghren blinked. A warrior with no weapon, no armor, and no way to pay for his next drink … wasn’t much of a warrior anymore. A flash of clarity came to him, the picture of Branka’s sweet face in the early days when he could have listened to her talk for hours and not grown tired of hearing her. That face would haunt him until the next drink, he knew that, but where was the drink to come from? He opened his mouth to beg the bartender, but the man’s scowl made it plain that tactic wouldn’t be getting him anywhere.

And then he felt someone sit down on the stool next to him. “’Syou, is it?” he said. “You got any coin? Barman’s cut me off.”

“Certainly.” Coins suddenly appeared on the bar, the barman accepting them and disappearing only to reappear with brimming mugs of ale. Oghren’s companion allowed him to take both of them, and Oghren quaffed them like water. In truth, a sight more readily than if they had been water. Orzammar’s water bubbled up from underground springs and rivers, a gift from the very Stone itself. Ferelden’s water flowed freely through the land, and Oghren had personally deposited in that water things he wouldn’t have wanted to find himself drinking.

The last drops of ale slid down the inside of the mug and into Oghren’s waiting mouth. He shook the mug, but there was no more. His companion sat still and silent, lost in thought, apparently, and seemed oblivious to Oghren’s broad pantomimed hints that more ale would be welcome.

At last, Oghren cleared his throat, making a good job of it, too. People from the other side of the tavern looked up. And his companion met his eyes with a smile. “Are you finished, then? Let us go elsewhere and   
see if we can find a place where the ale flows more freely.”

Fancy words for a plain concept, but Oghren was more than willing to go along. 

It was raining as they stepped out of the tavern, and Oghren shuddered. He would never get used to water falling from the skies, even if was cleaner than water flowing along at your feet. He looked distrustfully at the river as they walked along its edge, and considered asking his companion if they could change sides, but thought better of it. He wasn’t scared of water, not Oghren! 

He walked deliberately to the edge of the river, bent over, and spat in it. He was watching the white bubbly blob floating away in the moonlight when he felt a tremendous shove, as of someone’s boot connecting with his ass, and he lost his balance, falling into the river. The yell he managed was cut off when the foul water filled his mouth. He struggled to spit it out, but the current was moving along rapidly, and he had never learned how to swim. Slowly, inexorably, his air ran out and his body’s weight pulled him down to the silty bottom of the river. When he couldn’t take it any longer, he opened his mouth, desperately trying to draw in air, but his mouth and lungs flooded with the water. The last thought he had was of Branka.

The figure on the banks watched until the river flowed smoothly along once again, and then turned to stride swiftly off into the night.


	6. Wynne

Wynne reached over and adjusted the lamp so that its light would fall more fully on her book. It wasn’t much of an improvement—she had to admit, the problem was with her eyes more than with the light itself—but she knew the book by heart, anyway. Reading it was more an exercise in memory, which was also failing, than a stretch for her eyes. 

In truth, reading didn’t have the savor it once did. Here in a comfortable chair with good light and a glass of better-than-average wine at her side wasn't nearly as interesting as squinting at the tiny printing in the flickering light of the campfire had been. She missed listening to the children squabble. Alistair was gone now, no one knew where, and she couldn’t admit even to herself how big the hole he had left was. She’d looked on the young man as the grandchild she might have had. Morrigan had disappeared, although that was no great loss; Brosca had died atop Fort Drakon; Sten and the mabari were gone, ostensibly to Seheron, although rumor had it that there had been a massive battle on the docks. It appeared that Oghren had taken off, as well, shortly after the battle. Zevran and Leliana were still in Denerim, or so Wynne thought, but she never saw them. 

Wynne supposed perhaps it was time for her to decide what to do next. No one needed her in Denerim, and she had a horror of returning to the Tower and being shut up inside it again. Perhaps the College of Magi could use her? But she was reluctant to find out. Staying comfortably here in Denerim was so much easier, and she was so weary.

Flipping another page, Wynne tried to focus, but the familiar story wouldn’t play out in her mind’s eye. Her memory kept showing her pictures of those she had lost—not just her companions of the Blight, but the mages of the Tower, turned into grotesque parodies of themselves by demons during Uldred’s rebellion; the tiny reddened face of the baby she had glimpsed so briefly; the almost-forgotten brown eyes of the lover who had fathered that child; glimpses and flashes of parents she hadn’t known she remembered. Sometimes those memories were more real to her than what was happening right in front of her. She had always dreaded becoming one of those doddering old people who lived in the past, but it appeared inevitable.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t hear the whisper of the door being pushed open or the soft small steps of someone moving across the room. 

A single sharp blow and the mage's head sagged forward, the book slipping from her lap as easily as life slipped from her body. Frail as she was, it was no trouble to lift her from the chair and arrange her on the floor as if she had fallen.

Little remained to be done. Wine splashed on the polished wooden floor, the wine bottle left near the dead woman’s outstretched hand, blood smeared on the corner of the desk, blood wiped off the edge of the heavy paperweight. 

The scene was set, and the perpetrator slipped out of the room with a small nod of satisfaction.


	7. Leliana

The great library of the Chantry was silent at this hour of the night, so quiet you could almost hear the dust settling on the books. Leliana listened carefully to be sure she was alone before bending her head over the book she had found buried on a high shelf deep in the stacks. Its once-fine leather cover was crumbling, but the beauty of the volume was still there—it was a perfect representative of its subject, the great ruined temple to Andraste high above the small stunted town of Haven. The experience of entering that snow-covered temple, of imagining what it must have been like when first built, had moved Leliana deeply. She had felt a kinship with the great woman she revered, a closeness that not even the Guardian's cruel words could take from her.

That it was dangerous to read the book in the Chantry's own library Leliana knew. It had been hidden away so that the secrets of Andraste's temple, the very story of its building, would be concealed. Leliana was hungry for the secrets hidden inside, the revelations about Andraste she knew it must contain. She could easily have snuck it out and read it in a more secure location, but she couldn't bring herself to endanger the fragile volume by removing it from the premises. Here it was safe from (most) prying eyes, and would be preserved for the edification of future generations. 

She bent her head, carefully opening the cover. Soon she was lost in the volume.

The cloaked figure moved quietly away from the door, each step deliberate. These were not skills that came easily, especially when attempting to elude a rogue as skilled as Leliana, and the figure was cautious, breathing shallowly to avoid making even the smallest sound. The red head of the target was bent over the book, completely engrossed, and the figure was in position long before Leliana sat back with a weary sigh, closing the book almost reverently. 

Leliana rubbed at her eyes, tired and sore from squinting at the faded ink in the light of her candle. A yawn escaped her—the night had gone by more quickly than she had imagined it could, and it was time to restore the book to its shelf, before the Templars and the sisters came to open the library. She closed the book, careful of the fragile pages and the ancient binding, and blew out the candle. The early morning light coming in through the high windows was enough for Leliana's sharp eyes to see by. 

The ladder was still where she had left it, perched against the tall bookshelf. Leliana stood listening for a moment, but her own breathing was all she could hear. She climbed the ladder, holding on with one hand while she clutched the book in the other. She had to stand on the very top of the ladder to reach the shelf the book belonged on, balancing herself precariously and holding onto the shelf with her fingertips. Finding the book in the first place while in this position had been quite a feat. Putting it back was somewhat easier. 

Leliana was distracted by the need to be careful with the small volume as she attempted to slide it back into place on the tightly packed shelf, and so she didn't hear the faint footsteps on the floor as the cloaked figure emerged from behind the next bookcase. By the time the figure's gloved hands had closed around the ladder, jerking it roughly out of place, it was too late for Leliana to grab hold of anything that might help break her fall. Concerned for the book, she twisted awkwardly, catching her foot in the ladder and knocking herself off balance. She hit the ground hard, her head smacking into the floor with a sickening crack. The book was thrown from her hand, skidding across the floor and sliding underneath a bookcase, where it would remain hidden for decades to come. 

The figure watched Leliana's motionless, broken body for a few minutes, exulting in the blood that seeped from the back of her head and began to pool on the floor, before turning with a sweep of its cloak and leaving.

All was silent and still in the library, other than Leliana's harsh, labored breaths. A shadow detached itself from the wall, and a man in leather armor moved across the floor, standing in front of the fallen bard. He looked down at her dispassionately as she stirred, moaning, and then he disappeared behind the bookcase as her eyes began to flutter open. He put his hands on the back of the bookcase, shoving it with all his strength.

Leliana struggled to focus, to move, her eyes drawn to a blur of movement as the bookcase above her began to sway. It fell, landing heavily on top of her. 

The man in the leather armor knelt next to the fallen bookcase, listening to be certain the bard was dead. Then he nimbly climbed the wall and slipped out a high window, the way he had come in, leaving the library still and silent behind him.


	8. Loghain

Loghain rose from his bed, where he had been stretched out in a rare moment of leisure, to respond to the light knock at the door. “Who’s there?” he called.

“It is I.” His daughter’s voice came through the door, and Loghain hastily straightened a few things as he crossed the room. Keeping this room—the best he could find with Denerim nearly destroyed by the darkspawn attack—tidy hadn’t been his top priority in recent days. He opened the door, surprised to see Anora shrouded in a dowdy brown cloak with a hamper over her arm. If he’d seen her in the street, he wouldn’t have recognized her.

“Why do you look like a fishwife?” he asked as she came into the room.

Anora shook the hood back, shrugging delicately. “The streets are still in chaos, between the Warden’s armies and the refugees and all the damage done to the city. It seems wisest for the Queen to travel incognito.”

“I could have come to you,” Loghain said, “if I’d known you wanted to see me.”

“It’s not an official visit, Father. I just wanted to … see how you are.” She opened the hamper and began setting out a light meal. Cold chicken, bread, grapes, a nice bottle of wine. 

“Very thoughtful of you.” 

“Sit down, then,” she said, gesturing to the other chair. “No need to stand on ceremony.”

There was silence for several minutes as Anora served the food and they began eating. It was reassuring, the silence. Neither of them was a garrulous person, not like the Theirins or the Guerrins, and the quiet was soothing to Loghain.

“When is the ceremony?” he asked at last.

“For the Hero of Ferelden? Day after tomorrow.” There was a hint of irony in her tone. They both knew that some casteless dwarf wouldn’t be remembered as the hero for long. Loghain had already heard people muttering that he had been the one in charge of the final battle, that his presence on the rooftop must have meant Loghain took the final blow against the Archdemon instead of the dwarf. 

Few of those who knew what had happened on the rooftop remained. The Qunari and the Warden's mabari had torn each other to pieces on the docks; the elderly mage had slipped in a puddle of wine and fractured her skull. The Orlesian bard had been crushed under a falling bookcase while trying to reach a forbidden tome, as Loghain understood it. The drunken dwarf, the Witch of the Wilds, and the bastard prince had disappeared without a trace. The Antivan assassin was still skulking around Denerim. Loghain made a mental note to contact the local Crow cell and see if something could be done about the elf.

“And your future husband?" he asked his daughter. "How does he fare?”

Anora met his eyes briefly. Loghain thought there was a hint of amusement in the placid blue depths of her eyes, but wasn’t certain what the joke was. “He is well, Father. Thank you for asking.”

“You know, it isn’t strictly necessary that you marry him. You could rule alone, if you prefer.”

“Teagan is the wisest choice to placate that faction who insist on a somewhat more traditional accession. He may not be a Theirin, but he is closer to one than I am perceived to be.” She shrugged. “Besides, he is not an ill-looking man and has more brains than Cailan. Not to mention more interest in women.” She muttered the last sentence almost under her breath. Then, more loudly, “How is your wine?”

Loghain realized he had yet to try the wine. He lifted the glass, amazed at how cool it felt. “How did you keep this chilled?” He took a deep draught. It was a fine vintage, rolling smoothly over his tongue.

“I used a … preservative. The wine stays cool longer.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing. Sounds foreign.” He swallowed some more wine, draining the glass, feeling the coolness move all through his body. Perhaps it felt a bit too cool, he thought. Suddenly, he felt quite chilled. He shivered.

A small smile crossed Anora’s face. “Most fast acting,” she said. “I’ll have to give the assassin a bonus.”

“Assassin?” Loghain said, sure he must have misheard her. He raised his hand, glaring at the fingers, wondering why they were tingling. “What does the assassin have to do with anything?”

Anora got up from the table, beginning to pack up her hamper. “Revenge, Father.”

“Revenge?” Loghain looked up at his daughter in confusion. “Against whom?”

She stopped moving, staring at Loghain with her head cocked to the side, as though he was a specimen. His feet felt like blocks of ice. “Against you, Father.”  
He struggled against the effects of the poison, trying to understand what seemed incomprehensible—that his beloved daughter was in the process of murdering him. “For Cailan? That puppy?”

She laughed, a musical sound like frosted bells in Loghain’s ears. “Cailan? Oh, Father. You did me a favor at Ostagar. If you hadn’t maneuvered Cailan onto the battlefield and left him there to die, I would have had to come up with some more subtle way of ridding myself of him. And might well have lost the throne in the process. No, you acted just as I had hoped you would.” She closed the hamper carefully. “You see, I set you up. I knew that if I came crying to you about Cailan and Celene, if I encouraged Cailan in his hero worship of the Grey Wardens, if I set the two of you against each other you would butt heads over the course of the battle against the darkspawn.” Anora stood up, putting her hands affectionately on Loghain’s shoulder. He was cold enough now that the warmth of her hands burned, and he would have moved away if he could have. “I also knew, Father, that you would win. You always do, don’t you? The Hero of River Dane, the real ruler of Ferelden for so many years. Until I came along.”

“Wh-wh-why are y-you doing this?”

A knock on the door distracted Anora. She crossed the room and opened the door to a cloaked figure who swept her into his arm, kissing her passionately. “Did anyone follow you, lover?” Anora whispered.

The figure put the cloak back, and Teagan Guerrin shook his head no. “I’ve had a great deal of practice sneaking around this city to see you, my Queen.”

“Not for much longer,” Anora said. “Soon you will be my King, and we’ll only have to sneak around for fun.”

“I like the way you think,” Teagan said, bending to kiss her again. His hands dropped to her rear, cupping it through her skirts as Anora groaned, tilting her head back. They seemed to have forgotten Loghain. He tried desperately to speak, to make some sense of what was happening, but all that came out was a piteous moan. “I don’t think your father wants to see this.” Teagan grinned wickedly at Loghain.

“Father doesn’t understand, Teagan. Can you imagine, he thought I was killing him for Cailan.” They both laughed, and Anora turned to look at Loghain. “No, Father. The revenge is for me. I could have shared it with you. The kingdom would have been ours—the three of us, ready to make Ferelden the foremost country in all of Thedas. But you had to come back here and take over, push me aside, and try to take my throne from me!” Her voice rose in anger, and Teagan made a sharp whistling noise, jerking his head toward the door. Anora caught herself, speaking more quietly. “No one takes my throne. No one.” She looked back at Teagan. “I am glad to have you back, but I think separating was the wisest decision. No one suspects any of the deaths to have been more than accident." She gave a small smile. "It's all done now.”

“Oh, yes.” A not particularly nice smile crossed his face. “The Qunari was the hardest—he didn’t trust me. But a little of the right poison in the dog’s food, and trusted friend turns into slavering killer. It was quite a showdown on the docks. No one wanted to get involved, and the dog ripped the Qunari’s throat out while the Qunari disemboweled him. Very messy. Very entertaining.”

The Qunari? Loghain stared at them in shock. What had they done? The frigid fingers of cold seemed to have ceased their icy creep through his body—could he dare to hope that she hadn’t given him enough poison? That he might survive this nightmare to—what? Depose his daughter? Unmask her and her future husband for some kind of fiends? The hopelessness sapped his will, as powerful as the poison had been.

Teagan went on. “The dwarf was no trouble; he dropped neatly into the Hafter River, with very little assistance, I might add. Sank like the Stone he came from. The witch, of course, has been gone for some time. I caught her leaving the Warden’s room the night before we were to return to Denerim—she had shape-shifted into a wolf. The castle dogs don’t like wolves. They tore her to pieces before she could change back.”

Anora took up the tale. "I caved the mage’s head in myself, as she sat in the study drinking wine and reading some very naughty books. Of course, it looked as though she slipped and fell. So sad. And then the bard.” Anora’s tone was deceptively soft, but Loghain could hear an edge underneath it. The bard had done her best to charm Teagan, and apparently Loghain wasn't the only one who had noticed. "She lies buried under half the Chantry library." Loghain noticed that Anora looked faintly puzzled, but the expression passed quickly, and she leaned against Teagan's shoulder with a satisfied sigh. "They're all gone." 

With a massive effort, Loghain managed to force two syllables out of his mouth. “Als-tair.”

Anora looked at her father over Teagan’s arm. “Alistair? Oh, Father, do you think we would have left that to chance? No, no."

Teagan chuckled. "Once he ran out on the Warden at the Landsmeet, Alistair was introduced to a bottle of very strong spirits. Too strong for our poor, innocent Chantry lad. Alcohol poisoning is a nasty way to die. Too bad the last of the Theirins had to be left in an alley for rats to feed on. What an ignominious end to the dynasty. But now … well, I believe we have matters of state to attend to, my dear.” 

All Loghain could manage was a grunt, his jaws refusing to form even the small word, "Why?", that he was attempting.

Anora knelt next to him, taking Loghain’s hand in her own. It was strange, seeing it there, held in hers, without being able to feel it. “Teagan, Father doesn’t seem to understand why.”

Teagan leaned back against the door, his charming grin flashing. "I should think that would be obvious; at least, the start of it. Couldn't have a Theirin heir wandering around, not even a spoiled child who would have been incapable of taking the throne." He chuckled softly to himself. "Who would have thought that when I, oh, so gently, suggested to Isolde that Alistair looked too much like Eamon to be allowed free run of the castle, it would have worked out so well for me?" 

"False modesty does not become you, love," Anora said. She dropped Loghain's hand, which flopped alarmingly onto the table.

"True. But I admit that I didn't realize when I took steps to ensure that the lost Theirin heir would never be competent to take the throne that I would also be able to attract the attention of such a lovely and intelligent queen." 

Loghain would have rolled his eyes, if he could have. The cold was creeping slowly, but it was moving, the very pit of his stomach feeling chilled. He was increasingly anxious for them to be gone, that he might ... what? Fall on the floor? Bang on it with whatever body part he could summon to move to his will? The landlady, if she heard anything, would merely assume a drunken debauch of the type that was so common in this establishment. No help was coming to him, he told himself, but even now, it was hard to believe. He had always found a way ... He growled, inviting Teagan to continue.

"Well, you see, after Alistair was gone, we realized the Warden had to go, too. That much power? Even in a dwarf, it was too much to have her be a live hero. We were told that Morrigan knew a way the dwarf could survive the death of the Archdemon. Once we knew that, making sure Morrigan died was the most sensible thing to do."

"And then the dwarf died," Anora added. "For a moment, I worried that you had taken the final blow, Father, which would not have been according to plan at all."

Loghain could recall that moment on the roof vividly, the dwarf and the elf's final argument, their passionate last kiss, and the dwarf breaking away, darting past him with her surprising speed to end the Archdemon's life. It could have been him—it should have been; the elf had begged him to do it. But in that moment ... Loghain was ashamed to admit that he hadn't wanted to die, not the way Brosca had.

"Yes," Anora said, with a hint of sadness, seeming to sense his thoughts. "She was ready to go. And she saved Denerim in the process, for which we must be grateful."

"Once the Blight was over, we began to consider the future. We couldn't let the Qunari return to his homeland and tell his leaders everything he had learned about Ferelden. We decided the rest of the companions had to go, as well, before someone decided they'd try to find Alistair. Also, with them gone it will be much easier to sully the dwarf's reputation. She won't be the Hero of Ferelden for long." Teagan grinned. "Perhaps it was over-cautious of us, but it was a great deal of fun, as well."

"And now, you see, Father, there's you. You'll be found here, looking as though you had a heart attack. A man of your age, all the exertion of the last few months? No one will be surprised." Anora smiled at him. "I owe you this, after you stole my throne from me. Besides, you have far more power than that little dwarf would have. I can't have that. And we both know you'd never stop treating me like a helpless child."

"My dear, there is the assassin," Teagan reminded her sharply. "You told me you would take care of him."

"I have, lover, I have. All it took was a small word in the ear of a certain merchant. I understand the Crows have picked him up already. They've prepared a lovely welcome home party for him."

Teagan's shoulders relaxed perceptibly as he let out his breath, but Loghain wondered. The assassin had been the dwarf's lover. When she died, it was as if a light had been turned off inside the elf. What would have kept him in Ferelden long enough to be caught by the Crows? Loghain let out a long breath. Somehow it seemed unbelievable to be sitting here, dying slowly, while his beautiful collected daughter and her charming, urbane fiance chortled together over their string of murders. Was this the Ferelden he had fought for?

"It's time to go, Father." Anora knelt next to him again. "I regret this, you know. You could have been a very important part of our new Ferelden, if only ..." She sighed. "But you brought it on yourself."

With that as a valediction, she turned to go. She and Teagan covered themselves in shabby cloaks again and left together, as Loghain sat like an ice sculpture in the middle of the room.


	9. Zevran

The room was silent and still. Loghain could practically feel the ice crystals gathering throughout his body. A shadow moved, and Loghain found it disconcerting that he was unable to jerk in surprise as a man stepped forward. He recognized the assassin, and managed to make a sound. A plea? A greeting? Even Loghain wasn't certain.

"I thought that they would never leave," Zevran said, almost cheerfully. "They are very proud of themselves, no? And yet their plans have led them to a dead end." He grinned. "Literally."

"H-h-h," Loghain managed to force out.

"How? Or help?" The elf studied him for a moment. "Yes, I see she followed my instructions exactly. She is very careful, that daughter of yours, but not as bright as she would like to think. Nor is Bann, soon-to-be-King, Teagan as daring as he believes he is."

Even if Loghain had been able to speak, he wouldn't have known what to ask.

"It is strange to you, no doubt, to be helpless here, forced to remain immobile, you who have always moved with such decision. You see," the assassin continued, "I instructed her just so—I wanted your attention. Someone's attention, really, but you will do as well as anyone else." He sighed, looking suddenly very tired. "You see, it was I who was behind so much of this destruction. I consider it a feat worthy of the greatest Crow Masters, to have murdered the Hero of Ferelden's entire company while barely lifting a finger. Admittedly, Alistair was not my idea, nor was Morrigan. Those were Teagan's twisted thoughts, may the Maker burn his blackened soul." The assassin scowled for a moment, a dark look that sent a shiver of fear through Loghain.

Or it would have, had he not already been frozen by the poison. What had he to fear, anyway? He was going to die, either by the poison's cold fingers or the hand of this assassin. That much was very clear.

"When I told Teagan about Morrigan, I already knew what they had done with Alistair," the assassin continued. "I cared little about his loss; he had a fine sword arm, but no sense. However, it was my business to know the things that affected my Warden, and I followed him after the Landsmeet, unknown to our friend Teagan. At Redcliffe, when Morrigan offered her solution and Brosca refused to take it—" He broke off as Loghain forced a strangled noise from the back of his throat. "I know, you did not know of this solution. The Warden refused to have you told. Morrigan offered a ritual that would have saved the life of the one who killed the Archdemon, but my Brosca ..." The assassin's voice trailed off, and he cleared his throat. "She felt tainted. Not just by the darkspawn blood in her veins, but by all of it. The choices she'd made, the life she came from. In the end, death was her choice, when I would have had her choose life. But I, too, am tainted in my own way, and I was unable to show her light in the darkness. I am, after all, of the shadows."

There was a silence as the assassin stood still, his eyes seeing something Loghain's gaze couldn't follow. 

"No matter," the elf said at last. "It was her choice to make. It was my choice to tell Teagan that Morrigan had a plan, a way out, in a hope that he could stop her and bring her back. I thought there were ways that I could convince you to take the offer my Warden had rejected. But I did not understand then that Teagan was in league with Anora. It was a foolish—and fatal—error on my part." He nodded slowly. "Not that I minded seeing Morrigan ripped to pieces by dogs, no, except that she took the last hope with her. Once that was gone, once I had lost my Brosca forever ... what was to stop me from playing Teagan and Anora's game? It was entertaining, supplying the pair of them with information about my former companions' movements, assisting them in the best ways to make each person, so formidable together, vulnerable and alone. Perhaps I felt that each of the companions had let my Warden down, so constantly focused on their own needs, their own problems, so blind to the soul drowning before them in a pool of blackness." Grimly, he said, "Their deaths were deserved; as deserved as my Warden felt hers was." He nodded briskly, turning to face Loghain. "And now it is time for the game to end."

The assassin put a strong, slender hand on Loghain's forehead. At least, Loghain could see the hand reaching toward him; there was no sensation left in his skin. 

"This has worked nicely." The brown eyes studied Loghain's face. "You see, originally I had planned to kill you, to wrap this venture up neatly with all the companions dead. But I feel perhaps it is best if you live. Because you will suffer from what Anora has done to you today, from the inside, where the wound is the hardest to treat." The assassin bared his teeth in what might have passed for a smile. "But you will punish her, too, because it is not in you to forgive betrayal. Not even from her." He placed a packet of vellum on the table near Loghain's outstretched hand. "These will tell you the location of the bartender who saw Teagan drinking with Alistair the night he left the Landsmeet, the variety of poison used to make the mabari attack Sten on the docks, and the name of the maid who saw Anora leave the library after killing Wynne." The assassin straightened, looking toward the window, where the daylight was waning, and then he turned toward the door.

Loghain managed a strangled noise of protest, and the assassin stopped, looking back over his shoulder. His teeth flashed in the dim room as he smiled. "The paralysis? That should wear off by morning. There may be some ... unpleasant side effects, but no more than you deserve." He looked momentarily thoughtful. "I confess, I do not know how the poison may react with the taint in your blood. Perhaps I will inform my Crow contacts about your situation. They may find you useful to study." At another groan from Loghain, the elf shook his head. "Me, I am nothing. I am as the dust; I have been dead since the day she bested me, and when my purpose is done, I shall cease to exist. At least, as far as anyone in Ferelden will know." He stepped through the door, which swung slowly closed behind him, and left Loghain there. The poison was receding, and feeling was returning to his body, but there was none in his heart as he tried to summon up the will to save Ferelden one more time.


End file.
